Countdown to the Royal Divorce - part 15

Richard asked, in a not altogether friendly way, whether I was venting my spleen because of a lack of an invitation. Richard, my dear, we are not at home to Mrs Jealous.

Last week the telephone almost melted with the constant invitations to attend. Astute readers will be aware that I have not appeared at one of these events for some time. And no, Richard, it is coincidental that on the last occasion I got caught sitting between David Frost and Jilly Cooper, and had to pretend to faint to get away from the pair of drivelling ninnies.

“It won’t be much of a laugh, honey” said Camilla, “but we can nip down to the Gasfitter’s Armpit for a pint afterwards to take the piss out of the silly hats”. I told her that she was being a bit previous, and resisted the temptation to telephone her during the event just so that I could hear the sound of “Neighbours” dying as she hurriedly switched to BBC 1. It is nothing to do with protocol that causes her exclusion from state occasions but rather her ability to give Sophie Wessex the giggles at inappropriate moments. Sophie manages to contain herself, but alas not at both ends, which results in a histrionic effect of the SBD variety engulfing the nearest two hundred people.

“Do come” said Charles, “you are so good at making people feel at ease. I still haven’t got the hang of all of this, you know, I never know what to do with my hands.” “Neither does your bloody sister” I retorted, “and she doesn’t know her own strength. I am not afraid to give her a swift kick to the shins, so she steers clear of me, but poor old Johnny Mills had to walk with a stick for the last 15 years of his life, because she grabbed a protuberance that she swore she thought was a handkerchief”.

I stayed quietly at home, well, I say quietly, but I was interrupted three times by Zara, the silly moo, calling to ask why no-one was answering their mobiles.*

I was becoming rather gloomy because it looked as though Phil was going to behave himself for once, and I was expecting to have to transfer some funds to my William Hill account as a result, but the old bugger came through in the end. Fortunately, the microphones weren’t working when he engaged one of the choirboys in conversation, and was telling him which of the family would pay him “a fanny load more money than you get for singing” for dressing up in a surplice.

*Liz bought herself a cell phone a couple of years ago. You can guess what tune she downloaded as the ring tone. "It's such a scream, sweety", she confided, "everytime it rings, every fucker in the room has to jump up, stand still and start singing."